| AnimaMage
This is satirical fantasy--let's get this straight right away, okay? Yes, satirical. If you can't play along, then don't go complaining or anything, alright? okay. But please, by all means, continue the story, if you can keep the tone. I shall shortly begin with my first post.
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|  AnimaMage
Our story begins in the small rural town of Fifril. Yes, fifril. If you wanted to know anything about this town and were to ask any passersby you would not get very pleasant answers, for Fifril is the name of an Orcish wench in the dialects of the north. The peoples of fifril, mainly orcish salesmen and corn-row junkies from the south who couldn’t get respectable jobs from their racial counterparts (or wives for that matter), kept to themselves. Merfil was the name of their crop (though we might call them rutabagas) and they were stern of speech and of mind, for theirs was a hard life of working hard in the field, resting for hours on end, milking the cows, working the fields, milking the bar, and generally ploughing around.
Their days were numbered mainly in multiples of four and five, and seagulls were the choice harvest foul (though many said they tasted like chicken). However since seagulls were often in short supply (this was probably because Fifril was at least 500 miles from any coast) the townsfolk were quite used to grumbling about it and going on about their business as they pleased. This usually meant scrounging up enough plough-kill shrews to last the feast night and most Fifrillians were accustomed to just grumbling ‘bout “the boss” and “’e who made me bite the shrew”.
As often becomes pathetic fantasy diversions such as this one, a great thing was to arise out of the pool of excrement that was Fifril. His name was Berbil, and he was a rutabaga farmhand. He was not, like many of his fellow peers, a half-doped Rastifarian or snot-nosed Orc. He was, instead, the son of a prince. Or rather, he was the son of the former-prince-now-a-king-who-is-sadly-corrupt-and-evil. Yet this he did not know, for he had been dropped as a child on the front step of a certain Mr. and Mrs. Dwerange Berbillious. Yes, they were the town’s “garbage-pail-takers” otherwise known as custodians. But they took in poor Berbil, named him, fed him, taught him all the grand and beautiful practices of their Orcish ancestors like pillaging, raping, rousingly feasting, raping, pillaging, and raping. But since he was actually a human, he wasn’t terribly good at any of these things like his friends in Orc-school; on the whole he was rather skinny and flabby. But this did not hamper his orc-tendencies in the least, for he was always the first of his group to volunteer (like standing as bait for the annual hog-hunt or jumping into pools of manure for the occasional distraction. Yes, even the most spirited orc-child could not outdo him in cleverness, for he was known to disguise himself as a stuck pig in front of an entire mass of feverishly-feasting orc-men in heroic efforts to gain the wishbone. He did, in fact, get the wishbone in one such attempt. Half-bludgeoned and dazed from his excursion, he reeled out of the mass holding the wishbone in a greasy hand, all dignity (whatever there was of it) gone. That day he did not make a wish, but kept the wishbone in a hidden cigar box under his mat of hay he had by way of luxurious bed.
Then one day, for no reason at all, something incredible happened. Something that would make old women sit up in their knickers for years to come. Something that would alter the course of the future of the world for all of time. This happening would shape the fates of not just the revenant souls of Fifril, but the children of their grandchildren’s children. The very course of the winds would reverse because of its results. The towering pinnacle of the heavens would topple to the base of the world in its glory!
…and Berbil was constipated.
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| Trae
But that, I'm afraid, was only the beginning.
Berbil needed help. He needed it badly. He tried to scream, but the pain was too intense. Every breath multiplied the agony, every movement heightened the sheer torture. At last, he blacked out.
"Berbil!" the voice shouted to him. Berbil looked around. He was standing in a wide field of daisies. Berbil wasn't sure how he felt about the daisies. He bent over and tore one from the ground, pondering the smell.
"Berbil!" shouted the voice, again, only louder this time. Berbil dropped the flower and looked up.
"Uh...Me?" he asked timidly. There was a momentary silence, and then the booming voice resounded again.
"This is Berbil, adoptive son of Mr. and Mrs. Dwerange Berbillious and the Fifrilian people, resident of Pigsty Alley, Fifril, Province of Orcana, and heir to the former-prince-now-a-king-who-is-sadly-corrupt-and-evil, right?"
Berbil blinked.
"Right?" asked the voice again.
"Oh. Uh. Yeah. That's me," Berbil replied. There was another silence.
"Good..."
Yet another silence.
"Berbil!" The voice shook the field of daisies.
"Uh. Yeah?" replied Berbil.
"Berbil. I am your great-grandfather on your father's mother's side! It was prophesied to me a century ago that after my death I would have a descendent who was evil, but another descendent would overcome that evil. You are that descendent, Berbil. You!"
"The evil one?" Berbil asked.
"No! The other one."
"Did there have to be daisies?"
Yet another silence.
"No. I guess not."
Suddenly, all the daisies dissapeared.
"Thanks," said Berbil.
"No problem." A silence. "You are destined to overcome the evil king, your father who..." Berbil interrupted his great-gramps.
"Wait...How are you talking to me?"
"It's a pain induced hallucination," said his great-grandfather's voice.
"But you're dead."
"That is altogether beside the point. This is a destined message from the past. Don't question these things."
"Okay."
"Berbil!" boomed the voice.
"Yeah?"
"You must leave your comfortable home. You must give up your peaceful and luxurious settings as a sacrifice for the good of the people, and..."
"They beat me here..." Berbil interrupted.
"They do?"
"Yeah."
"Oh..."
Another silence. Berbil blinked.
"As a sacrifice for the good of the people, and you must seek out the king and kill him, free the kingdom from his evil tyrrany! You must leave today. Go Berbil! Now is your time..." The voice faded away, and soon after it, the vision.
Later that day, Berbil returned to consciousness. |
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| AnimaMage
Knowing hardly what to do and where he was, Berbil stumbled about noisily for the better part of a half hour. He had fallen asleep in the scullery of the town’s prestigious inn, “The Leaky Dragon”. Cooks ranted while worthless assistants bustled to and fro, pretending to be busy. The day’s veal was slavering in the corner, quivering slightly. Or at least, he mightn’t have been the day’s veal till the cook accidentally trampled him in his drunken stupor.
A fly buzzing past one unattentive ear, Berbil collapsed in the corner next to his dog. This happened to also be the same dog who was the day’s veal. But Berbil didn’t notice. No, he was too busy looking at the sweet puckered-green skin of the barmaid across the scullery floor. Her name . . . was Gwano . . . so pretty . . . so beautiful . . . with that tint of red in the hair and those delicately rounded nostrils that almost eclipsed her eyes . . .
“BERBIL!!!” shouted the voice of his boss.
“Yes Mr. Gremble?” he said, eyes fixated on that lovely ringlet that was dancing down past an unshaven chin.
“C’mon. We gotta lot to do b’fore happy hour. I need you to shuck the pigs, kay?”
Gwano moved past the wrought iron cupboard, revealing two voluptuous green legs. They looked like unshaven zucchini in the dim light of midday. Berbil gulped and forgot the past day’s events.
All night Berbil just wasn’t in his job. He couldn’t get his eyes off of that brawny barmaid. The way Gwano moved was just like some rabid hog in dire need of—of a friendly mud romp (an expression orcs are quite fond of that equates itself to wearing the perfume “dark delight” in human culture). Gwano dancing for the midnight romp to the slight, lilting melodies of Bongos and the puff of friendly “weed” pipes. Gwano handing out beer to a group of hardy farmers. Gwano slapping the fly on her forehead. Gwano putting on rutabaga-flavored lipstick: Oh! It was tantalizing.
It was no surprise then that Berbil didn’t notice the dark figure dressed in a black cloak sitting in the dark corner smoking a dark and obviously-ominous pipe. He even served him and hardly noticed the dark note that the figure darkly stuffed into his pocket. Even when fire-story time rolled around and the figure stood up and told a grim tale about the evils of the current regime, Berbil’s thoughts were elsewhere. He was in the kitchen gnawing at bits of curds and whey.
It wasn’t until later that the dark man took Berbil aside and began a dialogue with him that Berbil realized what was going on.
“My name,” the black man said, pulling his pitch-colored Steve-Irwin hat over his eyes, “is . . . Marvin.”
“Marvin?”
“Yes, Marvin.” He said, adding a raspy sound at the end for extra effect.
“Uh, Hi Marvin.” The man shuffled in his dark leather boots.
“…Hi.” Silence for several awkward moments as Berbil accidentally wretched the night’s dinner on the floor.
“Sorry, I think I had something bad tonight.”
“It’s okay.”
“Y’sure? That usually makes people get grossed out. Humans, at least.” The black man’s gaze lifted at this, as if a long-awaited opportunity had just rolled around.
“I have seen things that would make the greatest of men tremble, good sir. I have grappled with the darkest depths of despair, mounted the highest challenges and come. I have traveled through snow and over mountains, waded through sloughs and braved vast deserts to come here. In the elder nations I am also known as Guernsely, in the high tongue, Flafallafir, and am known as the Seventh sage, walker of stars, Hunter of the Night, bestowed the blessed blade by a high kin of old times known only as Stomata, the flurry of the dawn!” He then whipped out a short switchblade, and, holding it close to his forehead, proceeded to make a series of tongue-clicks that sounded at best like the calls of herpes-infected crickets on a bad night. Not knowing quite what to say, Berbil rummaged about for conversation.
“So . . . you’re not from around here, then?” Marvin’s antics were beginning to attract the attention of several half-dazed patrons. One came up and began watching Marvin’s movements with an intent expression. Marvin stopped, a sheepish expression on his cowled face.
“Mayhaps we should depart for more private environs?” Berbil opened his mouth wide, not knowing what to say.
“Oh, yes. Whence we finally ascend to a quiet room, I might tell you of your future journey across the 3 and a half seas, the perilous walk across the chasms of doom, and the final climactic journey through the queendom of the cruel Monarch, Gramkrakar. Yes, I may even tell you about the Ides of Star—“ It was at this moment that Berbil, who had enough sense to know when someone is spoiling a fairly decent plotline, put his hands over the loquacious ranger’s mouth and dragged him through the gathering crowd of interested patrons to a discreet room on the upper floor.
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| Trae
Stomata slammed the room door shut.
"Now, we can get down to business. I wouldn't want anyone to notice anything out of the ordinary, for our mission is one of subterfuge. We must be cunning and secret." Stomata watched Berbil, awaiting a reaction of some kind. When none was forthcoming, he squinted a little and then continued. "If we are to overcome your father and place you on the throne, we need to meet with our co-conspirators. Our meeting place is a cave in the heart of the evil queen Gramm-Krakar's kingdom." Berbil interrupted with a raised hand. "Yes?" asked Stomata, a little annoyed.
"Why couldn't we meet here?" Berbil asked. Stomata grinned deviously.
"Because," he said. "The evil queen will never expect it, right under her nose!"
"Would she expect it here?"
"Well, no, I guess not."
"Oh..."
"Anyway," continued Stomata. "It isn't safe to travel together until after we are met by our companions at the Strutting Salamander in Gramm-Krakar's Kingdom. On our side is Kindul, the master magician. He used to be your father's court mage, but there was an incident with a porcupine that would best be left untold. Also on our side is Frigglefed, an intelligent and agile fighter. I will give you directions to the tavern so that we can meet up again. It isn't safe to travel together. We will have to slip through the borders seperately, like solitary travelers."
"Uh...why?" asked Berbil.
"So they don't catch us! Of course!" shouted Stomata, angrily. "I don't think you're comprehending the import of this mission!"
"Who's trying to catch us?"
"The agents of your father, of course! The dreaded Nashtagawagllegillygues!, who have never failed to destroy those whom they...wanted to destroy."
"Can we call them Tagga-waggles?" asked Berbil.
"Everyone does," Stomata replied quickly.
"How does my father know we're trying to kill him?" asked Berbil. Stomata leaned in close and whispered.
"He has ears..." he began, and, reaching up to the sides of his head, said "right here." After a few moments of silence, Stomata continued. "So, you must cross the 3 and a half seas, make the perilous walk across the chasms of doom, and the final climactic journey through the queendom of the cruel Monarch, Gramkrakar to come at last to the Strutting Salamander tavern. Are you ready to depart at once?"
"Uh. Yeah, I guess," answered Berbil.
"To the road then! Once outside, follow the road west. It will take you all the way there. Pay attention to the signs." Stomata leapt from his chair and rushed to the door, opening it. Three orcs who had been pressing their ears to the outside of the frame fell into the room, and a large crowd of patrons rushed away. The two adventurers hurried from the tavern. Out in front, Stomata leapt upon a long-eared donkey, shouting "Off, Bodo! To the west! To the fall of the king!" Slowly, tiredly, the donkey trotted from the city.
The morning sun was rising as Berbil said a few goodbyes and headed out onto the road. It took him the greater part of the day to cross the 3 and a half seas, make the perilous walk across the chasms of doom, and the final climactic journey through the queendom of the cruel Monarch, Gramkrakar, but by mid-afternoon he had reached the town of M-illk. On the city gate was a large sign reading, "Conspiracy Meeting Tonight, after dark. Be in the back room of the Strutting Salamander if you're interested in overthrowing the evil king!" So, Berbil entered the Strutting Salamander and decided to have a few drinks while waiting for the meeting to begin. |
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| AnimaMage
Erratum: Trae messed up (in his infinite wisdom, of course). It was a misinterpretation of my mortal and infinitely-flawed writing. Rather than go back and be a good person, or effect a change to this mistake, I am telling you about it now before you go on. Stomata, a name which appeared frequently in the above post, describes the ranger. This is NOT his name; his real name IS Marvin. Stomata is the name of the dagger he wields expertly. I would have just changed my post, but see, Stomata is etymologically the name of some Elven gal who died for some prince or another in the southlands. Marvin is not of Elvish descent, and I think it would besmirch the elves to hear us writing about one of their saddest (believe me, it’s sad) poems in their large library of laments. There, now I can post.
Berbil sat down on the dark, gnarled figure lying on the floor that apparently passed for a bench and sipped his malted fairy-cream float thoughtfully. The room was dark and ominous, a lot like most taverns, he decided. Figures flitted to and fro, dashing this way and that on their flaming red roller-skates. Yes, those were the waitresses. Berbil sighed sadly. None of them had legs like Gwano…
The apparent avatar for this fine establishment, a beet red newt with apple cheeks and rosy red lips with a jolly forked tongue slitting in and out, sat in a bench on the far side of the room with a perpetual smile etched on the plastic sheen of its face. It was sitting upright looking relaxed (which is actually a physical impossibility for most salamanders) and held a sign saying, “Take a picture with Sammy the Salamander and tell all your friends!”
Berbil was about to do just that, but as he sat down in the static embrace of Sammy’s cold scaly hand, he caught a brief glimmer out of the corner of one eye. There in the corner, a hooded figure sat with a dark and ominous look on his scruffy unshaven face. Could it be…
But in a brief flash the hood was off and Berbil caught sight of the figure’s eyes. It was a GIRL! And not just any girl, but one with tawny, luscious locks of hair that cascaded down and complemented her goatee quite nicely.
Her goatee?
Her goatee.
Sickened, Berbil turned away to vomit on Sammy’s unmoving lap, but before he could do so three figures had surrounded him and were making various erratic motions with their gauntleted hands. “Halt, wastrel!” came a squeaky voice from beneath a dark hood. It was getting rather stuffy. Time…meaningless…life…strange…Berbil collapsed then and there without ejecting the morning’s meal.
However, he was awakened moments later by a pair of gnarled old hands shaking him incessantly. Berbil opened his eyes to see three odd faces peering down at him. He was on a floor of straw, lying in a manger. The cows were mooing overhead and the flutter of angel wings was out in the failing light of the late evening’s tired dusk.
Seeing him, the oldest of the three faces, white and wrinkled with age, smiled broadly. “Well, that’s good. I thought I was beating a dead horse.” Berbil looked at him blankly. “Well, good things come to those who wait. You almost opened up a can of worms out there.”
“Shut up” said the goateed girl.
“Fine, shoot the messenger,” the old man retorted sharply.
The girl moved closer to Bibril. “My name’s Frigglefed. But you can call me Frig,” she said lightly. “His name—” she jerked her thumb to the old man, “is Kindul.” Kindul bowed respectfully. “Don’t count your chicks before they—” “I said SHUT UP,” Frigglefed yelled in his general direction, a wild look in her eyes.
Berbil swallowed hard.
“Uh, m-miss Frigglefed?” he raised his hand respectfully. She didn’t pay any attention to him.
“His name is Alastor,” she pointed towards the hulking figure who had taken to gnawing on a nearby wooden beam. Frigglefed lowered her voice to a whisper, “He’s not quite right in the head, see. I picked him up in the swamps a while back. Good chap, but being an ogre he’s kinda…” she made a twirling motion with her hands that Berbil interpreted quite correctly as needing severe psychiatric help.
Silence.
“Where’s uh, Marvin?” Berbil piped up. “Oh, he’ll be around soon enough.” Frig replied nonchalantly.
More silence.
Berbil scratched his rear rather uncomfortably, then slid out of the manger. “I’m rather hungry, so uh…you wanna get something to eat?”
“EAT!” came a high pitched voice from Alastor.
“I’m positively chomping at the bit” said Kindul.
“Shut up,” said Frig.
About an hour later, they were all seated in one of the smoky little booths out in the main area, each man to his own victuals. There were steaming salted sprigs of asparagus. A large bowl of smoking lard sat in the center of the table which Alastor would ladel into his gaping toothed maw. Berbil himself enjoyed a plate of chicken wings, while Frig helped herself to a hearty course of dust and wind. Kindul ate pastries.
”I like to have my cake and eat it too,” Kindul commented. Frig smacked him one. “If it’s not one thing it’s the other,” he said dazedly.
The door splintered inward and a tall figure silhouetted the frame’s light with fierce ferocity. A tall, strong man walked in, his cropped black hair sticking through the cracks of his helmet. A light was in his eyes and a flame walked within him. He had a proud, noble bearing, and tattoos decorated his proud figure with dragons and unicorns and ogresses. He might have been a horseman of the Apocalypse.
Please, oh please, let him be a good guy, thought Berbil, his heart racing with fear.
The man took out a roll of parchment and, royal eyes scanning it, he proceeded to read out the message in a rich cultured voice.
“By the order of the queen, her ladyship Gramkrakar of the four corners of the kingdom, I am charged to arrest the traitors who have begun seeking to conspire against the formal cordiality and sovereignty of her dearly betrothed kingy-poo Dunsley Hartcroft the Third who rules the distant lands of beyond and happens to have a son even though he doesn’t know it. It is our mission—nay!” he turned to cock one perfectly sculpted eybrow on the crowds who had only now ceased their debauchery to look up. “It is my mission, as the captain of the Nashtagawagllegillygues to work for both my king and future queen in her distant lands. And that work involves exterminating anyone even remotely affiliated with the dissidents who would conspire against our dearest Gram-krakar.” He drew a black-hilted obsidian blade from its sheath.
“Who wants a go?”
Berbil felt like he had swallowed a huge hunk of ice. Oh, wait, that was the lump in his throat that had swelled to the size of a football.
“He’s gonna bite the dust.” said Kindul.
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| AnimaMage
"What do we do?" Berbil shouted frantically amidst the growing chaos that had ensued. How the chaos had ensued he had no clue.
Kindul sat down and put his staff across his two gnarled legs. "Whistle a happy tune. Two heads are better than one. A teaspoon of gold is worth an ounce of barley."
Frig hit him on the head with the flat edge of her blade. "We fight, stupid! Have you got a sword?"
Berbil grasped for words for a moment.
Instead he grasped the wooden ladel from Astaroth's soupy dinner. "I think so," he said with a slightly bewildered smile.
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| Trae
For a few horrible moments, all was held in suspesion. The dread captain stood, his blade at the ready, waiting for any dissidents to show a neck that he could sever.
Kindul sat, muttering to himself. Berbil hoped it was an incantation of power. Sadly, it was just the dribble of a half-insane old man. Frigglefed, however, had much more spirit. Brandishing her blade wildly, she charged the captain of the horrid near-dead Nashtagawagllegillygues. He saw her coming, of course, because she started her battle cry half way across the room. She leap over a table. "Um, excuse me. Can I get through here?" she asked politely to a thickly packed crowd of onlookers. They pressed back in an attempt to give her room, but she still had to elbow her way through much of the tavern before she finally appeared, frenzied and ready, standing before the captain.
"Ah, I see I have an opponent," said the captain. "Bring it, girly!"
The enraged Frigglefed spun around in a circle, revealing all of her back to an enemy blow, though the captain didn't take advantage of it, but waited with his own sword ready to block the semi-fast chop of Frigglefed's blade. Clash! The battle was on. Really, there was little deft footwork or stunning swordsman ship. Mostly, they tapped their swords together, every once in a while, one of them making a jab at the other.
"You will never endanger my king and queen!" shouted the captain. "I am Mecronicon! I am your death!"
"You wish!" shouted Figglefed, her dirty hair flying out in all directions as she made a lunging thrust at Mecronicon.
"No! I demand!" shouted Mecronicon, parrying somewhat clumsily. "Haha!"
The battle raged. Many people in the tavern returned to their meals, stories, and the pigs tournament in the corner. Berbil stood horrified, still wielding the wooden ladel. Figglefed leapt onto a table, disrupting a small gremlin who'd been eating there. She kicked the creatures bowl of scalding hot morning-breath soup (the specialty of the house) at Mecronicon.
"Argh!" he shouted, but an experienced fighter like he was quick on the return. With a spinning sweep kick, he bruised his shin badly on one of the table legs, but still managed to send it toppling to the ground, Figglefed with it. There was a resounding thud as her head met the floor. In an instant, the limping Mecronicon had his blade at her throat, laughing fiendishly.
"See! You cannot overcome the dread captain of the Nashtagawagllegillygues!"
"You will be overcome," Figglefed said, spitting up at his face (she missed, not having that kind of vertical range, and it came back down and landed on her).
"Never spit into the wind," said Kindul from where he still sat. Mecronicon raised an eyebrow at him, but then turned back to his prey.
"I will now allow you to ask any revealing question you wish, before I kill you."
"How did you find us?" Figglefed asked. "We were so careful!"
Mecronicon raised his voice in a devious laugh. "Something you never expected! Heheh. You're gonna love this." He raised his hand, chuckling and emphasizing each word. "Marvin is actually a Nashtagawagllegillygue. My right hand man!"
"NOOOOO!" screamed Figglefed. "The traitor!"
"I know! Isn't that great!" shouted Mecronicon. "Although I'm not sure he'd be termed a traitor, since he was never on your side in the first place."
Berbil's head spun as the deception was revealed. They'd all been lured there into a trap. Now, he saw everything clearly. The sudden appearance of Marvin in the tavern back home, the poster on the town gates, the readily accessible crummy tavern. The faded pink blouse worn by the barmaid... The flaming red rollerskates... Everything fit. He was a fool not to see it in the first place.
Then, it started to happen. The battle frenzy began to take him. A millenia of warlord blood began to boil in his veins. Was this not his moment? His ancestry and his orcish upbringing began to overflow. His left eye twitched. His thoughts swirled.
"AHHHHHHH!" He screamed, leaping at Mecronicon before his enemy could even lift his blade. THWACK! The ladel smashed into his nose. Tears sprung to Mecronicon's eyes, and he reeled backwards, dazed. More thwacks followed as the wrath of Berbil directed his ladel-arm. Welts erupted all across Mecronicon's body. He dropped his sword, trying to fend off the attack, but soon, he was on the ground, pleading for mercy. Berbil put the ladel to his throat and stared with flaming eyes at his enemy.
"Where can I find the king?!" he shouted, his voice squeaking a tiny bit.
"I'll never tell you!" wimpered Mecronicon.
"Tell me or taste the ladel!"
"Never!'
Berbil shoved the ladel into Mecronicon's mouth. He screamed and writhed in agony.
"That's right, Mecronicon. Morning-breath soup. Enough to turn a man's stomach into a small green triangular lump of earthworm-ridden dairy sod." Berbil pulled the ladel from Mecronicon's mouth.
"Okay! I'll tell you whatever you want to know!"
"Where's the king?!" shouted Berbil, raising the ladel towards his captives mouth.
"On the other side of the city. A small chapel called "The Hitchin' Post". He and Gram-Krakar are eloping. They'll be there in about ten minutes. No troops, no guards. She wanted a private wedding, without any reporters."
Berbil smiled. The ladel flashed before Mecronicon's eyes, and then he lay still, ladeled unconscious. |
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| AnimaMage
“Why do we have to wait out here?” asked Frig angrily. It was ten minutes later, on the other side of town.
“WAIT!” mused Alastor.
“I do so hate to be the blind man out,” Kindul sobbed.
“And why did you dress us up in these RIDICULOUS costumes?” Frig asked.
Berbil looked sheepishly at his companions. They were all dressed in the finest sackcloth from head to toe with large hoods to cover their eyes. “We’re dressed up as marriage mourners, guys! It’s the perfect plan! They’ll never suspect us, I promise!”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t explain why we have to wait out here while you go in and exact your revenge on your Father Dunsley Hartcroft the third!” Frig put her hands on her shapely hips in a huff.
Something came over Berbil at that moment. Call it fate, if you will, or mere whim of divine plan, but he was overcome. His eyes cast to Frig’s face for a moment. “Y’know, I kinda like your goatee, Frig.” Frig stopped as if caught in a two-ton orc wrestling match. A slow smile spread across her face.
“This is gonna hurt me more than it hurts you, lover-boy,” she cooed. Berbil goggled at her a moment before she gave him a quick one-two and he was dazed.
“Hmph. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade,” said Kindul, who did not quite grasp the situation.
“What’d you do that for???” Berbil reeled.
“Sorry, you were supposed to fall over in a dead fate.”
“Don’t you mean FAINT?”
“Er, yes.”
Totally turned off, Berbil cast his gaze over to The Hitchin’ Post. “Well, isn’t she getting the red carpet treatment!” commented Kindul. Berbil had to agree. The fountain had been garlanded a hundred times over to make something that resembled a silver Christmas tree after a bad season. Small cupids and seraphim were flying overhead; birds chirped incessantly from little ivory cages that had been hung from a thousand golden lightposts. Legions of effigies stood at the ready, each one at attention on the tops of the five hundred wedding-cakes resting atop the many white tables. Venus and Adonis were loping about in the clouds above the chapel. Oh, and yes, the whole courtyard was covered in red carpet.
“This is supposed to be an elope?” queried Berbil.
“LOPE!!!” screamed Alastor, who seemed to have gotten away from the group in the midst of the description and was feeding on the caged birds.
“There they are now!!!” commented Frig, pointing to a small carriage that had parked just in the midst of the crowded courtyard. They ran, ducking behind large mountains of strawberries and cream, to rest behind the silver fountain.
Out of the rose-red carriage stepped a woman of enormous girth and size. In her hands were red satin cloths, and a wreath was in her hair. She wore all red.
“Gram-krakar…” spoke Kindul reverently.
From the other side stepped a kindly man with a trimmed beard and a noble face, gentle with the passage of years. He wore a monocle and stepped with a stoop, but his posture had once been proud and great, Berbil could see.
“Is that—is that my father???” asked Berbil.
“Just a decoy,” spoke Frig. “Probably some shoeshiner or somethin’.
From the other side again loped a tall thin man of horse-like proportions, his long nose curving downward to rest somewhere on his adam’s apple. He wore spider-grey threads and sported some heavy bling around his neck.
“Is THAT my father?” breathed Berbil.
“Father of the bride.” Said Kindul offhandedly.
Again, from the carriage stepped a dark tall shadow. In one hand he held a ring of skulls, and a scythe long and dark from the weeks of endless battle was in his other. He was tall and shadowy, and spikes protruded from a dark hat that rested on his head. Glowing red eyes smouldered in black sockets beneath his hood. The earth chilled where he walked and plants died on all sides whenever he spoke his dark black words.
“Is…is th-that m-my father?” chattered Berbil, his heart in his throat.
“Justice of the Peace,” said Frig.
“Then WHO is my FATHER????” whispered Berbil.
“Wake up and smell the coffee,” said Kindul, pointing to the final figure to emerge from the coach. It was a small, scrawny little man who would’ve looked like Berbil were it not for the traces of dirty grey beard that clung to his weak chin. In his hands he held a bundle of parchment and a dirty old scepter.
“Wedding documents,” spoke Frig.
The procession hustled into the building. Berbil and the others ran up to the door, Alastor lagging behind with a sore, bird-filled belly. They knocked, and a pair of beady blue eyes with a large red nose peered out from a hole in the door.
“Who goes there?” came a whiny voice.
“Uh, erm, we are but poor, heartsick peasants who wish to have entry for ah, um, sanctuary.” Berbil scratched like a dog at the base of the door for added effect. “We wish only the joy of seeing the blessed union of the King and Queen, and would beg your mercy!”
“Nope.”
“What?”
“I said, nope!” came the voice. The wooden slat closed with sickening fluidity.
Berbil was speechless. Frig rapped tightly upon the door.
“What d’you want???” came the voice.
“If you do not grant us passage, good sir, I shall call upon a force greater than either of us could possibly comprehend.”
“What would that be?”
Frig smiled impishly. “I shall ask the help of that unstoppable force, the sheer power of which is unknown. It comes swiftly without warning, and eats alive those who resist. It pummels, dices, slices, thrashes and bashes, it—”
“Wait, did you say it ‘thrashes and bashes?’” asked the doorkeep.
“Aye.”
“What is this force you threaten to use against me, o wanderer who thinks so much of himself?” Frig looked sick at this last comment but answered. “I shall call, O insolent ward, upon the POPARAZZI!”
The doorkeep was taken aback for a moment, then closed the slat. Moments later, the door was open with the cowering old man inside it. “Please, go through kind masters!!” he fell at their feet in awe.
Berbil and company walked, and as they walked, he pondered the journey thus far. They were close to something big—he could feel it! But was it the end?
“Nothing ventured nothing gained!” quipped Kindul brightly from the back of the procession.
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| Trae
The service was to be held quickly, just in case any news got out about the elopement. The Hitchin' Post was gaudy beyond belief. Gilded fake gold covered all the pews and walls. Frescoes of poorly executed classical art spread across the ceiling, horribly complementing the jaunty red and gold chandelier. At the front of the chapel stood the king and queen. The other members of the party sat in the front pews. Just in front of the altar stood a small, quiet, serene looking priest. Suddenly, an usher walked up to the group of adventurers.
"Excuse me, the service is starting. Please take your seats," he said. The group obeyed, sitting down towards the back-middle of the chapel.
"I thought the Justice of the Peace was directing the ceremony?" said Gram-Krakar, angrily, towering over the pious little man at the front, draped in long flowing robes that merely emphasized his almost emaciated form. From his pew, the Justic of the Peace shrugged. Plans hadn't been well communicated. Gram-Krakar put her hands on her hips and stared at the king hard.
"Uh, it doesn't matter, really, does it dearest?" said Berbil's father. "Let's just get it over with."
The priest, his face peaceful as if not noticing the confusion of the bride and groom, humbly spread out his hands towards the couple. Then began a long, dull, terribly heart-felt, but unsufferably monotonous speech about the virtues of marriage and the qualities of true commitment. Slowly, throughout the speech, Berbil, who was nodding off, heard thuds as various guards around the chapel fell to the ground, asleep. He, himself, was about to fall asleep, when he noticed a spider on a web in the corner. He began to daydream about the spider. Who were its parents? Another thud. It was the father of the bride's head whacking the front of the pew as he fell over asleep. How old was it? Had it caught any flies there? Another thud. The Justice of the Peace was out. Berbil wanted to eat the spider.
"Do you, Dunsley Hartcroft the third, king of the realm, take Gram-Krakar the forty-eight to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do," said the king, nervously.
The words shook Berbil from his reverie. He looked around. Everyone in the chapel, including his companions, were asleep. Only he, the priest, the bride, and the groom remained awake. Panic struck Berbil. If knew that if the king and queen were pronounced man and wife, his mission would be a failure. He wansn't exactly sure why it would be a failure, but it was a gut instinct he couldn't deny. Either it was intuition or the morning breath soup working its wonders, but he didn't have time to debate. Fear began to fill him. What could he do? How could he stop the wedding and oust his father?
Berbil's destiny come upon him in force. Once again, the royal blood and the orcish upbringing surged forth in his veins. He sprung from his seat. He didn't have a weapon, but there was not time to get one. He'd have to do it with his bare hands.
"Gram-Krakar the fourty-eigth, queen of the realm, do you take Dunsley Hartcroft the third, king of the other realm, to be your lawfully wedded husband?" asked the priest, solemnly.
Berbil was running down the aisle, his eyes wide with rage, his hands outstretched towards his enemies. This was his time. This was the moment. This aisleway was a lot longer than he thought it was. Suddenly, a was thrown to the ground.
"Stop right there!" a familiar voice shouted. It was Marvin, wielding Stomata furiously. He put the blade to Berbil's neck. "There's no escape for you now!" Marvin cackled. "Now you get to watch the king and queen be married, and all your hopes fall to dust!"
The king and queen, who had turned to look at the commotion, smiled. At last, the elusive resistence movement leader was caught. Now, they could never fail in their goals, which were undoubtedly very twisted and cruel, and of a domineering nature. The priest didn't seem to notice the confusion. Everyone else remained asleep.
"Well! Get one with it. Pronounce us man and wife!" shouted Gram-Krakar at the little man in the robes. The sharpness of the tone seemed to hurt the priest's feelings. His eyes got very big and very round, like he was about to cry.
"I now pronounce you...." he began, his voice cracking... Berbil awaited the dreaded word, knowing all his hopes and dreams were crushed.
"I now pronounce you..." A slow, cruel smile played across the priest's lips. "Dead!" As if out of no where, there was a loud, horrendous shriek, and suddenly, the music of electric guitars and full orchestra broke out in a nearly deafening speed metal version of "In the Hall of the Mountain King" from the Pyr Gynte sweet. Doing a back flip, the priest landed on the organ, his robes flying off, revealing a full black suit strapped with more weapons that could be imagined. He stood, basking in his theme music, slowly pulling various bladed weapons from their sheaths. He was giving the guards time to wake up from the spell he had cast on them. Why? He wanted to extend his scene. The first guard charged him. With a spinning side kick, he sent the fool sprawling to the floor. Two more thrust their spears at him, but with a flip, he was behind, and they fell, pierced in the throat by double throwing knives. More guards came, and more guards fell, the priest leaping onto the walls, jumping from one guard to the other, barely touching the floor, all the time in perfect rhythm to the mysterious theme music, which was totally awesome.
Terrified, the king and queen stood clinging to eachother in the aisle, not knowing where to run, though outside might have been a good idea, as that's where everyone else was running, including the Justice of the Peace, who hitched up his black robes and ran for it, screaming in a high falcetto, wilting the red carpet as he passed.
Marvin ran, too, leaving Berbil alone on the floor. When all the guards were dead or gone, the priest slowly walked up to the trembling king and queen.
"It is time for you to die!" he said, and then killed them. He picked up his robes from off of the ground and slipped them on, turning to face Berbil, who stood, wide eyed.
"Who are you?" Berbil asked.
"What?" shouted the priest.
"Who are you?" shouted Berbil, trying to be heard over the music.
"Hold on a second, I can't hear you!" The priest clapped twice, and the music turned off. 'What's that again?" he said.
"Who are you?" asked Berbil. "How'd you know of our mission?"
"I didn't kid," the priest said, striking a cool pose. "It's just what I do."
"But I thought it was my destiny to kill the king?"
"Well, kid, you'll just have to be quicker about it next time. Sorry." With that, the priest clapped again, and the screaming metal totally sweet theme song burst back again. Quickly, the priest ran down the aisle. Berbil turned to watch him go. He was still running down the aisle. The aisle was a lot longer than the priest had expected. At last, he came to the back window of the Hitchin' Post and in a large puff of smoke, with a single leap, was gone. The music stopped. Berbil wondered why he hadn't used the door.
Berbil's companions had fled during the fighting, and so Berbil journeyed home again, as one of his father's captains had already declared himself king. He couldn't get back his old job at the pig farm. His rival, Thumbdrum, had applied and gotten it in his absence. Berbil had to beg for food from his old adoptive parents, but they were angry at him for running off, and wouldn't take him in. He slept outside in the alley of the tavern, doing odd jobs for anyone that needed help. About a month later, the pigs that Berbil used to keep randomly dug up a large stockpile of gold coins. Thumbdrum became a rich man in the town and married Gwano. They lived happily all their days. As for Berbil, he started drinking a lot, trying to forget his sorrows. One night, as he lay in an alley, he called out angrily to his great great grandfather.
"I thought you said it was my destiny! I thought you told me I'd kill the king!"
Amazingly, his great great grandfather answered.
"Sorry, you've got the wrong one. You're after your great grandfather on your father's mother's side. "
"Oh, sorry." Berbil waited a few seconds, and then called out to his great grandfather on his father's mother's side.
"I thought you said it was my destiny! I thought you told me I'd kill the king!"
Amazingly, his great grandfather on his father's mother's side answered him.
"Yeah, well, it was a pain induced hallucination. It isn't something to stake your life on."
"What about now?" Berbil asked. "How are you speaking to me, now?"
"You're drunk."
After a long time, Berbil decided to make a life of wandering, and struck off for far and distant lands.
The End. |
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| AnimaMage
As if!
I just received news that New Line Cinema's gotten wind of the book and it's raving success and has put Peter Jackson in the works of making The Ides of Starch a major motion picture. I've also heard that Leonardo Dicrappio has applied for the role of Berbil, with Angelina Jolie as Frig and Sean Connery as Kindul.
Seeing as how this is obviously *yeah right...* a great avenue for making some money, I've set to work on the sequel. But check out my post on the General Discussion section!!! We need feedback to make these better, if you will.
Thanks for reading,
Joe |
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